Scars
by Hotarukun
Summary: John learns something about Sherlock, and Sherlock wishes he hadn't.


**AN: This has probably been done before, but I thought it was an interesting concept.**

John stood stock-still at the top of the stairs, half in the flat and half outside the door. His mouth was slightly parted, his eyes wide. He was half-conscious of the fact that Sherlock not yet turning around made it clear that he was so deeply immersed in what he was staring at on the wall, that he was unaware of John's presence.

Sherlock's back was to him.

His bare back.

He was not wearing a shirt.

Either from a new-forming habit or just out of pure curiosity—John observed. He saw the lean arms and knew it was from swinging from rooftops like some demented sociopathic superhero. He saw the ribcage, visible from where he stood several feet away and in dim lighting, and knew Sherlock lied to him to his face about how often he ate a decent meal.

He saw the long, rampant, faint scars splayed like spider webs across his back and knew Sherlock had been beaten as a child.

_Sherlock_. It was more of a feeling in his heart: warmth, sadness, confusion. But his head must've made him say it out loud, because the dark-haired man turned around.

Surprise. Shock. Shame. And then the very normal shutdown.

All of those emotions John could see very plainly see Sherlock's face flicker through, there and yet gone in an instant.

"You're home early," Sherlock said briskly. He put down the marker he'd been holding and picked up his shirt, holding it in front of himself as if it were a shield, keeping it between his bare chest and John, and the space between them like a barrier. His usually graceful movements were stiff and uncomfortable.

John dropped his bag of groceries gently without looking downward. "_Sherlock_."

The detective automatically tensed, hands going to the side of his head and into his dark hair, almost as if to block John out. "_Stop it."_

"Stop what?"

"I know you've seen them. I don't want to hear it."

John clenched his hand into a fist in frustration. He watched Sherlock put his shirt on hurriedly and start to brush by him. But John, with the practiced movements of a fighter, quickly grabbed his arm, making him backtrack a step or two. "You don't want to hear _what_?" He asked Sherlock, although his gaze was focused on the opposite wall, the one Sherlock had just been facing.

Sherlock shook his head slowly and John could see his sarcastic smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't _do _that," John spat, turning to him angrily and having the satisfaction of seeing a momentary confusion flit across Sherlock's features. "Nothing about this is the least bit funny."

"…why are you angry?"

"Because you're blowing off any serious question I ask, just as you always do."

"And that is for the reason of you constantly asking them," Sherlock said lowly, ducking his head as he did when regarding John seriously.

"I am not pitying you, Sherlock," John informed him. "Not that you should add that to your list of fears."

Sherlock wrenched free from John's grip. His face was impassive as he strode back over to his wall, his back facing John again.

The man sighed, the anger dissipating into its usual exasperation and disappointment.

"He never hit Mycroft."

John paused and turned slowly from his procession into the kitchen. He tried to not breathe, so as to not make any noise to startle Sherlock into stopping. He watched his friend's back carefully. Sherlock's head tilted to the side, as if he were observing something, but John knew he was simply grasping for a memory he'd tried to override.

"He used a belt. Never the belt he was wearing though, which I always found interesting…"

John hesitated before taking a step forward, and then another. He sat cautiously on the table in front of Sherlock, disliking not being able to see the man's expressions. He considered that Sherlock's advantage.

He was surprised when the taller man didn't avert his gaze, but looked down at him instantly. He opened his mouth, but then cleared his throat. "I don't like remembering it particularly," he said softly, eyes on John's.

John smiled slightly. He took his jacket off, then paused before seeming to come to a decision in his head, taking off the sweater he'd had on underneath.

"…John?" Sherlock inquired in alarm, before his eyes went directly to John's left shoulders. "Oh." It was a small, quiet sound of realization and even maybe understanding. He crouched slightly, peering at the mangled tissue and the thin marks around it. It was so red and raw.

"Horrifying, isn't it?" John asked lightly.

Sherlock did not answer him. He brought his right hand up and across, running his fingertips warily over the scar. John flinched at the initial contact, but did not move away. He watched Sherlock's face, his lips moving only barely as he spoke. "Another army doctor did not remove the bullet from this wound."

"No, he was not a doctor," John said and the cold tone and bitterness in which was said made Sherlock tense.

Sherlock traced the surrounding scars with a harsh expression. They were made by someone's hand; someone who had been shaky and nervous.

The thought of a John, bleeding and in unmentionable pain, yet still telling some stupid, novice solder to calm down patiently, it was going to be alright.

The detective swallowed and moved his hand up to the crook of John's bare neck. He would not meet his eyes but he could hear John's voice, just as he had that first day. "It's fine." He involuntarily flicked his gaze to John's face. He was smiling tentatively. "It's all fine."

Sherlock let out a laugh that could've been a sob, before quieting again. He leaned further towards the other man and pressed his forehead to his. John didn't even flinch.


End file.
